


Sorry

by superagentwolf



Series: With Religious Fervor [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Pre-Grindelwald, Pre-Slash, mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: In the weeks before Newt Scamander arrives in New York, a certain Director of Magical Security finds himself drawn to a young man in the Second-Salem district of town. He would forget the encounter, like all others, but the new Auror and her persistence lead to Graves approaching the boy.Credence is a sorry thing, pale skin and bones and submissiveness. Graves thinks their relationship will be a strange one.





	

He is not looking for anything when he first meets the boy.

“Take her around. Show her footwork,” Picquery had said, waving her hand almost as an afterthought; a stack of papers neatly lined themselves on her waiting desk.

“Wouldn’t this be better left-,”

“Miss Goldstein requires…a firm hand.”

He hadn’t given the President’s words any further thought. He had known what she meant. Porpentina, he assumed, was rather headstrong. Upon meeting the young woman, he realized just why Picquery had decided to pair them.

“Shouldn’t we be looking after the Second Salem-,”

“No,” he had replied firmly, casting a sideways glance at the woman.

Short, expressive brown hair. Even more expressive eyes. Porpentina- _Tina,_ she’d said, _no one calls me that_ \- was simply expressive. She did not let herself go unheard.

An admirable quality, surely. One that he was certain would get her into just as much trouble as it would grant her respect.

So they had gone. Along the streets, cars skittering by with their black carapaces and beetle-like businessman cocooned within. Down busy sidewalks crowded with no-maj busybodies content with making their way through intricate lives intertwined like spiderwebs. Oblivious to the magic hiding just parallel to their own worlds.

“I think I’d better go listen,” Tina says suddenly as they come to the steps of the library.

Graves blinks, drawn out of his looking-glass mind, and before he can respond the fledgling Auror is off to monitor the Second-Salemer who is preaching her stuff to a mostly bemused audience.

He doesn’t pay her much mind, thinking that perhaps leaving Tina on her own for a short time will tell him more about her private desires and focus on the job.

He’s heard others describe him as ‘a generally good man’ with ‘an authoritarian streak’. It suits him as well as anything does; he has a job to perform and if he does not do it well, the entire wizarding population of North America stands to suffer. It is no small burden, but he knows- without any egotistical concept of worth- that he is the best to carry it.

So perhaps Graves is authoritarian and shrewd; but if he is, it is only because his position requires such qualities.

He is thinking on these things when he walks down the street and almost over a young man.

“I’m sorry,” Graves says immediately, because he is not ungentlemanly and he truly _is_ sorry.

The figure curled over the ground seems to tilt dangerously, imbalanced, and Graves reaches to steady him. It is a boy, he immediately thinks, and he gets the impression it’s a rather harassed one. He’s wearing a stark black suit, cheap, ill-fitted at the legs where it tents unflatteringly about the knees. A dark head of hair is bent towards the ground and thin, pale fingers clench a stack of pamphlets to a chest curled in on itself.

When Graves reaches, the figure shrinks, almost hitting the wall. They boy glances up through thick bangs and Graves blinks.

As an Auror, he is perceptive. What he notices immediately is a tang of fear, acrid, pulling at the pale lines of the boy’s face. He has fine features, Graves thinks, too fine for the way he is presenting himself.

…and.

And Graves has seen much as an Auror; he is the one who comes after the storm, surveying the wreckage and casualties, using the nightmare to inform his moves and fuel his desire to catch dark wizards. He has seen much.

Much, but not this.

Not this kind of fear. Not this kind of animal repulsion, this unmistakable scar of brutality. It is not the damage he’s used to, the damage inflicted by magic and spells. This is damage done by a human. It is the purest, condensed form of violence that no amount of magic can compete with.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, almost without knowing why.

His hand is outstretched. The starched edges of his white shirt are stark against the black of his robe. He can see the boy pause for a fraction of a moment, dark brown eyes lingering and mouth slightly open as if to speak.

The moment breaks and a girl calls out. Graves doesn’t hear the name; he only watches as the young girl, dark blonde hair twisted up into her hat, rushes over to pull the boy to his feet.

“Sorry, sir, please forgive him,” she says, bowing repeatedly as she ducks away.

Graves turns, wants to say something, but he only watches as the girl leads the ducking figure out into the crowd.

The incident would have left his mind. It would have, but for the next month all he can think about is the boy and the fear in his dark eyes.

* * *

 

Porpentina has a bad habit of going a little _too_ far out of her way to monitor the Second-Salemers. Graves can understand, of course; he is all too familiar with the unkind side of the no-maj population. On the other hand, however, he thinks that the proper way to approach the issue of secrecy is by first securing Grindelwald. With the danger back in secure custody, he thinks maybe- _perhaps_ \- the wizarding community might finally be able to approach some sort of diplomatic harmony with the no-maj.

In any case, Porpentina’s enthusiasm lands her in hot water often enough that Graves has to deal with the fallout. Mostly the disturbances are minor, but in the wake of Grindelwald’s escape, Picquery is treating everything with complete seriousness and scrutiny.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Tina says for what seems like the tenth time that week.

“You need to remember to _check_ first,” Graves reminds her, not unkindly.

“Yes, sir,” Tina immediately responds, shoulders lifting a fraction.

He sighs a little. He doesn’t want to seem like a pushover; he always corrects issues and addresses them directly. Tina, however, has a remarkable ability to interpret criticism as friendly suggestion. She may have good intentions, Graves thinks, but her problem is that she requires a _firm_ hand.

He may be authoritarian but he isn’t a jerk.

It’s probably his kindness that led him to following her to the library. He’d wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. All things considered, he probably should have saved himself the time. In the end, though, he sees no harm- especially if it will work to drive home his point. He knows Goldstein wants to be a respectable Auror. She’s certainly talented. Her application skills, however, need work.

Tina makes her way back to the office, sufficiently chastised for the time being, and Graves decides to walk.

He finds his mind cluttered; walking helps him clear his thoughts. So he walks, down jostling streets, the sounds of vendors and Second-Salemers and clattering wheels filling the air with a discordant ambient noise. He is just ducking his head as the first few drops of rain fall when he bumps into someone.

“-sir. We must be vigilant,” a voice floats into his ears.

 _It’s one of them,_ Graves thinks, _Second-Salemer._ Yet something in the voice gives him pause. It sounds like Tina when she’s been chastised by Picquery. Submissive, crushed even, repentant- but unbroken. Swirling with some emotion that _drives_.

He looks up, rain falling heavy on his lashes, and through the water that clouds his eyes like tears he sees the boy.

“You,” he says, quiet and simple.

The boy’s eyes meet his. His head is bowed pathetically but his _eyes_ , his eyes are stone. They are worn and weathered but resolute.

“Here, sir,” the boy says. Hand reaching forth with a leaflet. “Knowledge will free us. From them.”

“Is that what they say?”

A dark head tilts, gaze venturing forth from heavy bangs. The boy’s eyelashes are dark, heavy with rain. Water spins in rivulets down his face, past coral-bright lips parted with some unknown emotion.

“Witches, sir,” the boy says, eyes heavy with meaning, “live among us. We must stand firm.”

“Yes. We must,” Graves says, gazing into the boy’s dark eyes.

He takes the pamphlet, uncaring of the contents, and backs away slowly. He holds the paper over his head, knowing it will not do much to shelter him, but he thinks what the boy needs is a demonstration.

The paper grows limp and begins to fall apart in his hand. He watches the boy’s eyes, locked on the pamphlet, as he finally turns away to walk down the street.

 _Their lies are fragile,_ he thinks as he walks away from the wet figure. _And you- you are not._

* * *

He can’t stop thinking about the boy.

He has no real reason to meditate on the young man. No reason at all.

Except he’d been able to tell, had sensed _something_ there. He knows, without a doubt, that the boy has magic. Strong magic, no less, despite how locked away it is.

It hurts him, somehow, to see a wizard locking themselves away. Touting the lies like oil that Second-Salemers preach.

He wants to stay away.

He is not an emotional man. He has no relationships outside of work. No ties, no bindings. He is not a fool- he knows better than to dismiss all human relationships as unnecessary. He knows, logically, that as a human he requires social contact. He is not averse to relatively friendly conversation between coworkers.

But this. This is different.

He isn’t sure what he feels. All he knows is that he feels _something_ \- and something, he can’t ignore.

* * *

Tina makes a mess of things. She interferes, like she shouldn’t, and she is disciplined for it.

Graves is not present during the aftermath. He returns to New York, travel-weary, and makes his way to his apartment. He is not twenty feet from the building before Tina appears.

“Sir. I need-,”

He must seem as if he is about to speak- and perhaps he is; he is shocked that she would come to his place of residence- so she quickly finishes, hands inches away from his arms, pleading.

“-I need your help. There’s a boy, sir, he lives with a woman- she adopted him, but she’s abusive, she’s abusive to all the children but to him the most. Please. She hurts him, and he- I think he may-,”

“Goldstein,” Graves interrupts, firm, voice rough with lack of sleep. “Why-,”

“I haven’t told them because she’s a Second-Salemer. And I don’t know if he knows what he is.”

He feels something, in the back of his mind. A small seed grown to sprout.

“Where does he live?”

She tells him. Everything she knows she tells him and he listens, patient, thinking only that he will give the matter cursory investigation. He is more capable of assigning resources; he knows if there is any danger in the situation he will be able to address it more quickly than Tina ever could. He takes her words with salt, knowing she is apt to dramatizing, but he also considers her manner. Her urgency. The way she’d waited outside his apartment.

When he walks down the street the next day, hands in his cloak, bracing against cold wind, he feels his heart sink.

He’s been down this street before.

* * *

Not-mother is angry.

Credence had tried to do well. He’d tried very hard to make people listen, to hand out his leaflets. Yet still he’d been home after his not-sisters, still carrying papers.

The belt had been swift and severe against his skin. He had expected it, but expectation did not soften the blows.

He stands on a corner, leaflets like sandpaper against his abused hands, and he wonders what would happen if he dropped them. Let them fall from his hands, walked away.

But he knows.

He knows so he stays, gathering his breath and what remains of his shattered self, preparing to speak.

And then he sees him.

The man across the street.

He is a handsome man. His suit is the blackest black, a rich color that swallows the darkness. His hair is dark too, slicked back from where the peak rests on his forehead. His eyebrows always seem to be drawn together, Credence thinks, in some sort of perpetual worry.

He is different.

There is something about the man- perhaps his cloak, which seems to be a void of shadow, and should really scare Credence rather than interest him. But he _is_ interested. He is curious, which is a sin, he reminds himself, and he hates how intrigued he is.

The man walks purposefully and Credence tilts his head away, trying not to look, hunching in on himself as if he can hide his pain and the twisting feeling in his gut.

“Hello,” the man says. His voice is just as Credence remembers it- just faintly gravelly, low, purposeful.

And there is the smell.

It is cologne, he thinks, and he shamefully inhales slowly. It is pine and warmth and some kind of foreign spice. Credence doesn’t want it but he _does_ , wants the warmth it offers so badly it hurts like the cuts on his hands. His hands shake a little with pain and desire, and he hates the way he lapses into sin even as the welts of penance throb on his body.

“Sir,” Credence manages, still looking away.

“My name is Percival Graves,” the man says quietly.

He is close, too close, and Credence feverishly wonders why. _Why is he so close?_ Graves- Mister Graves, Credence corrects himself, watches him carefully.

“May I help you, sir?” Credence tries, voice shaking. He glances up. It is a mistake.

His voice- and perhaps his heart? - is stuck in his throat. They choke him, rendering him silent as he looks up into Graves’ eyes. They are dark and observant and they are looking for something. Credence doesn’t know what but he wants desperately to be _it_ , to be _right_ for him, so he searches Graves’ eyes for some hint of what to do.

“…what is your name?” Graves asks, almost wonderingly, words drawn slowly from his lips.

“C- Credence. Barebone.”

“Barebone,” Graves murmurs, looking down at him.

It’s not his name. Credence shrinks a little, reflexively, glancing towards the black building. He can almost hear the others- adults- calling Mary Lou by her last name. _Barebone. The Barebone woman._ A sliver of fear creeps up his spine. He wonders if she is watching. Is terrified that she is, sees him, thinks-

He blinks rapidly, breath thin in his chest, and then the entire world changes.

“Credence?”

There is a hand, callused but warm and careful, just at the edge of his jaw. Its slight pressure guides Credence, turning him to look at Graves.

A little gasp leaves his mouth and it is half a cry, wonder and horror and delight exploding from within at the small spot of heat the hand creates on his face. He knows he should move away, thinks he ought to try, but he doesn’t. Graves’ eyes pin him in place, curiosity and scrutiny dissolving as they are replaced with concern.

Credence has never truly seen someone look at him with concern.

It steals the rest of his breath away and he gasps, shuddering, pamphlets sliding to the ground.

Graves looks down at his palms and his eyes darken. His hand moves and Credence feels the loss, aching in his heart, before Graves takes his arm and they suddenly disappear.

The strange swirling pull spits them out into an alleyway and Credence blinks, mind left somewhere behind on the corner where his leaflets lie in a puddle of filthy rainwater.

“Who did this?” Graves asks.

He asks and Credence wants to answer him, wants to please, twisted in two from his not-mother’s influence and his own desires.

“M-,” he begins, but his heart hammers in his ears and he stops, glancing to the side where the home isn’t.

“…your mother,” Graves finishes, quickly realizing, voice somehow different on the title.

 _He knows,_ Credence thinks wonderingly, eyes inexplicably drawn back to the man before him. _He knows she isn’t my real mother. He knows how cruel she is._

He doesn’t question it. He doesn’t care. All Credence can think is that this man- this… _witch_ has somehow come to him, understanding, knowing, ready to help.

“-n…no,” Credence starts, hands jumping back from Graves. He immediately feels the loss. “I can’t-,”

“Credence,” Graves murmurs and it’s all that is needed for Credence to fall apart, give in all over again. “She’s hurting you.”

Credence can’t answer. He can only finish his descent, a small whimper breaking through his pressed lips as he ducks his head in shame.

And Graves, his savior, the mystery who wears shadows like clothes- or the other way around? – pulls him closer. He pulls Credence in, one rough hand cradling the back of his head as if to protect it from blows he surely cannot know about.

* * *

“Credence.”

The boy turns, eyes hopeful but unsure. Graves feels oddly conflicted. He is at once repulsed by the sheer _need_ he sees and at the same time tantalizingly attracted.

He knows all about power. He has plenty of it. It’s made him careful.

What he knows is that in their relationship, the power dynamic is not simply unbalanced. It is nonexistent. He has all of it, and Credence has none.

“Sir,” the boy whispers, ducking his head in what seems to be an instinctive move.

“Call me Graves,” the man replies, reminding himself to tread lightly.

It’s been two days. Graves hadn’t wanted to give even that much, too concerned about the welts and cuts he’d seen. At the time, he hadn’t healed them, knowing far too well that disapparating had been ill-advised as it was. Credence needs time. He needs to trust Graves.

Credence nods affirmatively, still closed-off but a little less tense.

“Your hands?”

Dark eyes dart upwards. Graves is a little thrown by what he sees there. He’d seen it before- the way Credence avoided eye contact, the way he’d seemed unable to look away once it was made.

“…they’re not as bad,” the boy tries, voice uneven and weak.

 _But there. Still there,_ Graves thinks. He feels a small seed of triumph. _She hasn’t succeeded yet._

“Let me see.”

He curses himself when Credence automatically responds. _He’s been ordered enough,_ he chastises himself.

Yet it is so easy. It would be so easy to order the boy. To take the control being offered.

_But I am not her. And I will not be another abuser._

Credence’s hands are still angry red. Graves sighs through his nose, glancing at the boy. His eyes are fixed on their joined hands. _Perhaps,_ Graves thinks. _I can’t wait_.

He is careful, trying not to apply too much pressure. His hand ghosts over Credence’s and he winces at the shudder wracking the boy’s frame.

“I’m sorry,” Graves begins, looking up as he finishes. “Did I hurt you?”

Credence stares openly, pupils large, breath short with the adrenaline Graves assumes has flooded him. The boy shivers, hand twitching spasmodically.

_Oh, no._

“No,” Credence manages, eyes wide. He breathes the word; it parts him as a ghost. “No.”

“Good,” Graves manages, barely managing to maintain his even tone. “I’ll come back tomorrow. I want to ask you something. For now, rest.”

He disapparates, never seeing the way Credence watches him go.

* * *

“ _Fuck_ ,” Graves curses, closing his bedroom door behind him. “Fuck.”

He can see Credence staring up at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

 _I don’t want this,_ he thinks, running tired hands over his face. _I never wanted this._

He knows he should assign someone else to the case. He knows this, yet he doesn’t because he knows no one else could gain Credence’s trust the way he has. He doesn’t even consider the idea.

He knows he should stop. He knows that Credence is powerless, is completely under his sway; he _knows_ these things and yet he _can’t_.

He can’t because he is selfish and maybe something else, too, because all he can see is a pale face with dark eyes and high flushes of coral on cheeks that match scarred hands.

He sinks onto his bed, face resting on his palms, hiding away from the world he’s grown so weary of. The families broken by Grindelwald and his ilk.

And Credence, beaten but unbroken.

_Fuck._

* * *

Graves explains the situation to him. How the woman- _Tina,_ he called her- could not help Credence. How Graves _would_.

Credence believes him. He doesn’t even really need to know everything; he can see the man wants to help. Can help.

“Do you know what I am?”

“…a witch,” Credence manages grudgingly because he doesn’t like it; can’t stand the way the ugly word sounds when it’s directed at Graves.

“…a wizard, really,” Graves murmurs, but there’s a faint trace of humor in his resigned expression. The vague turn of his lips makes Credence happier, if only a little.

“I won’t tell,” Credence says quickly, looking up at the man.

Graves watches him, dark eyes searching. _Always searching. For what?_

“I know you won’t,” Graves replies, his gloved hand resting on Credence’s shoulder.

Credence wants to lean into that hand. He wants to give himself over, _entrust_ himself. He is scared by this, terrified really, but also strangely excited. He knows he should be wary. Frightened. Reluctant. He isn’t.

_Why?_

“Has she hurt you again?”

Graves’ hand moves down Credence’s arm, fingers light against a thin wrist. Credence inhales a shuddering breath.

“No.”

“Good,” Graves says shortly.

He seems to hesitate, watching. Credence wonders why. He thinks perhaps this is why he’s so willing to give in- he is open, vulnerable, and all that Graves has done is hesitate. He has asked questions, waited patiently, moved slowly. He does not take.

He _gives_.

Graves heals. He protects. Somehow, intrinsically, Credence knows this.

Graves cautiously pulls Credence into his shoulder, hands resting lightly, never forceful, only guiding. Credence exhales, breathing out his demons to make room for the warmth of Graves’ arms and the lingering scent of his cologne.

 _Good_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely teasing. I purposely left it open-ended for the time being since I wasn't sure whether I wanted to diverge from canon or not. I am personally a fan of Graves- the real one, I think, would have been quite interesting. I am one of those people who would like to explore the possibility that Credence met the original Graves before Grindelwald showed his ugly mug. Hopefully you enjoy- let me know if you'd like to see more!


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